What Became of Fleance
by screamingHALLELUJAH
Summary: The story of what happened to Fleance after Banquo was killed, vaguely merged with a Dickens-esque setting except it's in Paris, not London . Children living on the street, angst, and a little bit of love.
1. Part I: Cold

_**Part I: Cold**_

Frost crunched beneath a small boy's feet as he trudged onward through a frigid, foreign forest. None of the boughs of these trees were familiar, none of the trunks marked with familiar niches or knots. Worst of all, it was just so _cold_. The unwelcoming pines held no warmth for the young boy to huddle nearby and relish in, as they were hidden from the sun at the foot of a large mountain in a narrow valley. He shivered violently, wrapping his arms around himself in hopes of keeping in some of his precious body heat, while at the same time part of him wished to grow stiff and numb on the leaf-littered forest floor as his father now was.

Tiny sobs wracked his small frame as he involuntarily recalled the moment he fled, glancing back just once to watch as a stranger plunged a sword straight through his father's back. Fleance had stood there, simply watching his greatest friend's eyes roll back in his head as he collapsed, the sword sucking all of the life out of him. "O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly!" he had cried as he'd fallen to his knees, blood pouring out of his wound. "Thou mayst revenge. O slave!"

By then, one of the murderers had noticed Fleance's hesitation and rushed towards him to take advantage of the horrible scene. Fortunately, the boy hadn't been too distraught to flee before the ax wielding man was near enough to injure him. In the days since, Fleance had trekked from the small, deadly grove across empty fields and through overgrown forests. He was now nearing what he thought must be the edge of Scotland – the air was becoming saturated with the familiar briny taint of the North Sea, while seagulls cawed far above the tips of the enormous pines. Far ahead, he could hear the gentle lapping of waves against a sandy shore. Could this sea bear freedom, or leave him trapped, with no other option but to turn and go back?

The trees thinned as he walked ahead, still shivering with red-rimmed eyes. Soon the soft grass gave way to jagged rocks, smothering any of nature's attempts at arboreal life. Fleance stepped out into the open space, pausing to take in the sight before him. The rocky, exposed earth quickly dissolved into sand, which in turn yielded to deep blue, tumultuous waters. About a hundred meters out, a small anchored ship bounced and bobbed in the waves. Banked on the shore was a miniature of the boat, its bow buried in the white sand.

"Who's that over there?" a stout old man called, waving to young Fleance. The boy stiffened, half turning back towards the shelter of the trees. "Hold on there, don't leave just yet! We won't 'urt you." The man started across the sand to Fleance, pausing a couple meters away and beckoning the child over. "Come 'ere, I don't mean any 'arm." He held out a warm, welcoming hand, crouching low on the ground to seem so imposing. Warily, Fleance stepped out onto the sand, surprised at how quickly his feet sank. He continued forwards at a slow pace, gaining confidence as he went. "'Atta boy, I won't 'arm ya'." From where he stood now, just within reach of this kind looking man, Fleance had completely abandoned his trust in strangers. The world was no longer the bright, happy place it had been only a week ago. A terrifying darkness had invaded his world and conquered his senses, leaving him skittish and fearful every waking moment. He wasn't sure whether he could trust this man or not, but at this point, he also didn't feel as if he had much of a choice. What was there to lose?

He took the chance. Fleance stepped forward and placed his small hand in the strange man's much larger one, choosing to leave his fate in someone else's hands. Shock invaded the man's expression as he took the boy's hands – they were as cold as ice. "Good God, boy, your 'ands are right frozen! Come 'ere." The man pulled Fleance over, shedding his thick jacket and draping it over the boy's thin shoulders. "My name's Ben. 'Ave you got a name, son?"

Fleance nodded, pulling the jacket close around his body. "Fleance, sir."

"That there's a right good name, a right good name…" Ben stood up straight again, running a hand through his hair. He let out a puff of air before patting Fleance's back. "Well then, come on now, we'll find you a home, then." Ben took Fleance's hand again and led him over to the dinghy, introducing him to another crewmember before rowing back out to the main ship.


	2. Part II: Shame

_**Part II: Shame**_

For the next two weeks, Fleance traveled out at sea with Ben and his crew. The older men quickly grew fond of the young boy, teaching him the ins and outs of sailing. However, good things never last forever.

Fleance was sitting cross-legged on the deck of the ship with three other men, playing a game of cards. "What's your bet, lad?" one of the men inquired, grinning down at the boy. Fleance scratched the back of his head uncertainly, fishing around in his pockets for some of the change he'd been given or that he'd won through gambling. His heart sank as he came up with nothing but empty pockets.

"I don't have anything to bet with," he mumbled gloomily, putting down his cards. The older men exchanged glances of pity; each hoping the other would donate a coin or two to the boy so they didn't have to.

"Shame. Now you can't beat us all." This sent them off in a fit of uproarious laughter – even Fleance. It was true: somehow, he always managed to beat the older men and win all of their money, but in the end, he gave most of it back. What would such a young boy need money for when he has everything he needs right in one place?

Just then, the hatch leading down to the sleeping quarters opened up and Ben climbed out, looking solemn. Once Fleance saw the look on his face, he stopped laughing – he'd never seen his friend so serious before. "I've got some bad news, ev'ryone." He walked over to the group of gamblers and sat on a wooden crate nearby, sighing heavily. "I'm 'fraid this is our last day." His head hung in shame, for he was unable to face his men. The next time they docked would be the last.

"_What?_ Why?" one of the men growled angrily.

"Times are rough, an' it costs money to ship goods. Businesses are becomin' local again, so we're not getting enough cargo to carry for what it costs to sail. I'm sorry – I wish I could change things."

_Final port? _ Fleance's head was spinning. What would he do? How would he survive? He couldn't go back to Scotland now – they were due to dock in Le Havre within the next day. Would Ben take him home? "Sir? What'll become of me?" Fleance nervously bit his lip, looking up at Ben with wide, fearful eyes.

Slowly, the man turned to gaze at the boy with the saddest expression. "Well… 'Ow's about I take you to Paris with me? I'll be there for a short while, an' then you won't be out in the middle of nowhere, so you can find a job an' support yourself." Ben nodded slowly at first, then more firmly, sure of his plan's success.

Fleance swallowed, staring down at a loose plank on the floor of the ship. Support himself? All he could do was nod; for the second time in his life, he wished desperately that he could numb himself to such feelings of angst. How could he ever trust a person when each stranger he meets keeps bringing him nothing but despair? Somewhere inside of him, he knew that Ben wasn't really at fault, it was simply the poor economy – but his loose grip on the world's inner workings led him to believe that someone had to be at fault, and so he placed the blame on the bearer of his bad news.

The other men were less devastated, though each was disappointed in his own way. Some were relieved to return to their families, others dreaded the suffocating reunion. As the day moved on and they neared their final destination, many worried how they would manage to pay rent for their homes or keep food on the table if they were now jobless. A melancholy cloud seemed to hover over the little boat all day and through the night, until they finally landed in Le Havre, France.

It was dusk by the time Fleance and Ben reached Paris. Suspended far above the small city were high, wispy cirrus clouds while soft, purple puffs of cumulus clouds floated more closely. The sky was painted bright oranges and yellows, while the La Seine river reflected pinker hues. Wavy, green hills rose beyond the water, and just above them hovered a dimly lit orange ball: the sun.

Fleance stopped in the center of a bridge, gaping at the beautiful sight as Ben kept walking. "Come on, lad, you'll see a thousand more o' those before you get out of 'ere." Fleance just barely managed to tear his gaze away from the sky to run forwards and catch up before Ben disappeared down a street. He couldn't help but regain a bit of hope as he ran ahead; if something so magnificently stunning could exist in the midst of all of his recent misfortune, then surely his struggles would lead him to better, brighter futures.

That night, Fleance slept on a cot in the corner of Ben's cramped apartment. All night he tossed and turned, tangling himself up in the thin blankets Ben had found for him. He dreamed of a ravaging storm, sweeping in and tearing apart their ship. Fleance was flung off the boat and into the icy surging water, then pulled down into darkness by the sinking ship. Gasping, he flailed about in the water as his lungs were filled. He quickly became light headed, and that was when he saw his father, lifelessly suspended in the ocean.

"No!" the boy cried out, gasping as he sat up with a start. He shuddered, pulling the blanket close around his body and shutting his eyes tightly. Fleance was greeted with the image of his father's dead eyes staring back at him, ingraining themselves in his memory permanently. The boy whimpered, opening his eyes again and hugging his knees to his chest. _Is it possible to sleep with your eyes open?_ he thought to himself as he struggled to remain awake for fear of his nightmare returning.


	3. Part III: Salut

_**Part III: Salut**_

The following morning, Fleance was sent out to seek a job. A strangely guilty looking Ben supplied the boy with a knapsack full of anything one could need for a day – a lunch, his own penknife, a hand drawn map of the small city. As Fleance walked out the door, he glanced back at his friend and waved cheerfully, never guessing this would be the last time he would see him.

The young boy stood tall, attempting to radiate with confidence in his every stride. He never touched the map as he worked his way through the quiet streets, wishing more to seem as though he belonged somewhere than know where he was going. Upon nearing the main square, the traffic thickened with more people scurrying about, rushing to do chores and buy goods. He stepped out into the large, open area just as he heard the clamor.

"Out, out, out! Shoo!" A man was shouting from the doorway of his shop, his arms flailing wildly in the air. The man's face was beet red as he glared at a group of children about Fleance's age running across the square, giggling and laughing the whole way. They were headed straight for Fleance.

One of them, the smallest, leanest one, was laughing so hard that he lost his footing and tripping, sending him sprawling out onto the pavement a meter away from Fleance while the others shot past, not even bothering to stop and make sure their friend was alright. "_Attendez!_ Wait!" he cried in a high voice, his lower lip trembling as he looked down at his scraped knee. One of his friends laughed, turning around for a moment as he ran to look.

"Get up, Sandy! We're not waiting for you!" The older boy chuckled again, turning and running to catch up with their other friends. Fleance looked down at Sandy, tilting his head curiously. The thin boy sat on his knees, staring after his friends for a moment in disbelief before rising to his feet, wiping off his knees.

"_Âne_," he muttered under his breath, glaring at his friend's backs while Fleance stood there dumbly. Sensing another person's presence, Sandy turned, startled to see Fleance standing so close by. "_Salut_."

"Uh, hello," Fleance muttered, embarrassed that he didn't know the native tongue. "I'm Fleance."

"Sandy." The other boy looked Fleance over skeptically, trying to figure out just where he'd come from. Fleance did the same: Sandy had a girlish face with bright blue eyes and rosy cheeks. His hair was covered by an old, ratty hat that matched his clothes quite well. His arms and legs were thin in the starving way, with little muscle. "You're not from here."

Fleance shook his head. "No."

Sandy's eyes flitted nervously from the shop he and his friends had just escaped, to Fleance's face, to the escape route, and then back to Fleance. "_Comment tu t'apelles de nouveau?_" Fleance stared at him blankly, blinking. Sandy raised a single eyebrow, then recalled the other boy's inability to speak French. "_Désolé. _Sorry. What's your name, again?"

"Oh. Fleance."

"Well _vas-y_, come on, Fleance!" Sandy grabbed Fleance's wrist and suddenly yanked him forwards, taking off at a run in the direction his friends had gone. The foreign boy had no choice but to follow, running as fast as he could to keep up with his wiry new friend.


End file.
